


Stitched Into the Skin

by kayura_sanada



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: -Ish, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Clan Lavellan - Freeform, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, No Sex, Not A Fix-It, Slow Burn, Solas Feels, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Violence against Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: When a person turns ten, their soul mark, or Attribute, forms on their bodies. Pinga Lavellan's warns her of a wolf.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note: For the story's sake, the culmination of their relationship, when Lavellan grabs Solas' arm, takes place nearly directly after the events at the Winter Palace.
> 
> Extra Note: Some of these words are taken from FenxShiral's Elvhen Lexicon, which I highly recommend and which I do not own in the slightest.

 

A few months before her father killed her mother, on the day she turned ten years old, Pinga got her Attribute.

The day was a bright one, the heralding of spring and a new year. She went straight to her keeper, Istamaethoriel, and quietly told her of the Attribute's success. Almost everyone got their Attribute when they turned ten, but a few rare souls had to wait. Receiving the Attribute at age ten meant her soul bonded was alive.

As tradition dictated, the keeper took her inside her room and asked her to show her the marking. She did, proudly pulling her shirt down as far as she could, yanking it off her right shoulder and pulling low so one could see her collarbone. The Attribute sat just below the jut of bone, a scrawling, yet elegant script detailing her bond and her soul's other. She'd already struggled to read it upside down, but hadn't been able to make sense of it. Still, she grinned broadly as the keeper asked her to turn and take off her shirt, covering herself as she turned back, but leaving the mark bare. It was on her chest, just up and to the right of her heart. The closer to the heart, it was said, the deeper the bond. Most people had them on their arms or hips.

Istamaethoriel studied her Attribute for a long time, her lips thin. Pinga felt her smile dimming as time passed. Finally the woman placed a single hand on her shoulder. Pinga's smile disappeared. People only did that when trying to give comfort.

"Pinga." That tone made her heart sink. The woman stared hard at her, until Pinga couldn't help but look only into those light blue eyes. "Do you know what your words mean?"

She shook her head. Bit her lip. "Something bad."

At that, the woman smiled. "No, child." The woman squeezed, then let go. "No."

But she knew better.

* * *

The keeper wrapped her up in her own robes, covering Pinga's gaze from the sight of her father's body before her, arrows pockmarking his chest, blood pooling to mingle with her mother's, throat gaping to show her spine. Pinga shivered within the warm cloth, her own blood staining the fibers. She huddled deep within, hoping to never come back out.

"A shrine to Anaris," one of the hunters said, his voice wet with disgust. "He was offering his family to the Forgotten One."

"Silence, Peylon," the keeper said. Her voice came from just above Pinga's head. She didn't look up. Instead she peeked beneath the robes, looking at her arm as blood plastered the keeper's robes to her skin. Peeling off the cloth revealed a mass of blood on her shoulder and arm and chest, gushing slowly still from the long, jagged slash from her father's swing. He'd missed her neck, likely because of the tears running down his face. Instead he'd hit the bone of her shoulder and sliced down.

Desperately, she wiped at the spilling blood, annoyed at the wet, slick return of it more than the shocks of pain at the contact with the wound. Beneath the steady stream, she could just barely make out the words of her destined and the long, unsteady slice that cut through the words 'into' and 'through.' She ran her hand over the cut, barely wincing at the pain, something in her heart tearing at the destruction of something so beautiful.

"Come, Pinga," Keeper Istamaethoriel said, wrapping her arms carefully around Pinga's arms and helping her up. Pinga shivered and hunkered down, trying to hide her tears. Her keeper had never liked her Attribute, but Pinga loved it. She mourned its destruction as much as the loss of her mother. Indeed, it felt like she'd lost not only her parents, but her soul's other, as well.

She let her keeper lead her away from the cave and her parents' bodies, her tiny frame shivering as her own blood joined with theirs on the ground. She said not a word as she was led to her keeper's tent, nor when she was healed by Faradin, Istamaethoriel's first. She just kept her head down and tried not to cry.

The scar over her Attribute never fully healed, and the letters the wound covered never came back.

* * *

His entire life, his _Vianvallas_ never showed. Of course, immortal beings needn't worry when their bonded may be born; his had only to wait, and he would find the person whom he sought.

After the war, after the Veil, his thoughts had been far from bonded or markings; he had been tired from his endless battles, exhausted with the weight of his choices, and had wanted only to sleep. His dreams had been long, twisted, and restless; he'd seen changes in the world he hadn't foreseen. Changes in his people.

When he woke and found his _Vianvallas_ twined around his right collarbone up around his shoulder, he bowed his head and mourned. Suddenly, one thousand years was a very, very long time.

* * *

She looked up from her book at the sound of footsteps. After so many years, she had memorized the sound of Istamaethoriel's walk. While the rest of the clan kept their eyes on her in case she turned out like her father, Istamaethoriel had taken her in, taking on her education and safety. The woman padded over to her, leaning back to look Pinga in the eye from down on the ground. Pinga's foot swung in the air as she turned on the tree branch to face her keeper more fully. "Anything?"

The keeper shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. Pinga tried not to show her despondency. It was really no surprise at this point. Every clan made it a point to have its keepers meet as often as possible, one of their duties to try to find the match for their people. Over and over again, though Keeper Istamaethoriel continued searching every year, no keeper made any reference to any part of her phrase, nor showed any recognition of its meaning. She knew, at twenty-four, it was too early to believe it was too late. Still, when she thought about the scar criss-crossing through her Attribute, she couldn't help but wonder if choosing the _vallaslin_ of Mythal could have been enough to overcome the portent of that scar and the way in which it came to be.

Worse, she was old enough to know why Istamaethoriel had stared at her Attribute with such pity and concern. The words could only mean one thing: Fen'Harel watched over her partnership.

She tucked the book between her feet and dropped down from the tree branch, carefully bending her legs as she landed to keep from dropping the book to the ground. As she straightened, she plucked the book back up and shook her blond curls from her face. "But telling me that could have waited until tonight."

Istamaethoriel nodded. "I came to ask you if you could do this clan a favor."

Pinga tilted her head. Her ponytail bounced against her neck. "Me?"

The woman took a breath. "Indeed, I believe this favor may be of benefit to you, as well. We have found no sign of your Vital." The words were blunt, but nothing more than the truth. Pinga told herself not to be upset by them. "Despite searching throughout the clans, we have come up empty. Perhaps it is time to look somewhere else."

It was possible, of course, that she was matched to an elf in a human city. What her clanmates called a flat-ear, someone considered not Dalish enough. She bit her lip. No doubt Istamaethoriel knew exactly what kind of stigma was attached to those whose Vitals came from the cities' Alienages, and that was why she'd chosen to come to the edge of the _aravel_ to speak with her. Very few would be around to listen, and less would see a private conversation occurring with the keeper and would eavesdrop.

She took a deep breath. This was the next logical step. It didn't matter that the idea of it made her burn with shame. She of all people knew the clans were sometimes too quick to judge - too slow to accept. She would not judge those whose only crime was being born in the wrong place. "You want me to search for them. In the cities."

It would be dangerous. She'd heard many things about how elves were treated by humans, had even seen much of it herself. Her own brother had been killed by humans in one single village, simply for the crime of being elven and perhaps having magic. Larger cities would be even more averse to the idea of her existence, especially as she wore the markings of her people.

"I would not send you into such danger, _da'len_ ," Keeper Istamaethoriel said. Surprise had Pinga's voice failing when she tried to reply. "I want you to see beyond these few trade villages. Humans, however, are in a dangerous time, and their war has come close to encroaching on us many times in the past months."

Pinga nodded. She knew. She'd been on the last scouting party to see the oncoming surge of templars toward their clan's last home. She'd been the one to race to the _aravel_ and warn them to pack up and leave before the area became a battlefield.

"I would like you to be the one to attend this meeting their 'Divine' is holding in one of their temples."

She perked up at that. "Me? I'm not an assassin. My expertise lies in the forests."

Istamaethoriel's lips thinned. Small wrinkles spread from the edges of her lips, a sure sign of age that seemed almost odd on the woman's face. To Pinga, she was still the woman of her youth, of that night, with barely a hint of crow's feet creasing the edges of her eyes. Now, Pinga felt suddenly aware of the woman's advancing age. When Istamaethoriel died, she may well find herself cast out of the clan. The distrust could easily spill over a bit too far, and there would be nothing Faradin would be able to do - if he even wanted to.

"This is not a request solely for the sake of getting inside," Istamaethoriel said finally. "It is a quest that includes gaining trust, finding information. We need someone who can speak for our people without raising aggression toward us. The last thing we need is for these templars to think we are siding with the mages in this war."

Pinga shuddered at the very thought. If they were considered complicit in anything, their clans would all be hunted down actively. They could hide in the forests for a short time, but they couldn't afford to get picked off. There weren't enough of them out there, anyway.

She breathed deep. While she was known favorably in the human markets, she wasn't certain that was reason enough for her to be the one to go. The other reason had to be because of her Attribute. At age twenty-four, people usually had an idea as to who might be their chosen. Usually at least one option came by the time one reached their second decade. Yet she, for whatever reason, hadn't had a single potential match. Istamaethoriel had become as good as her mother after her father's actions that night. No doubt the keeper was worried about her.

If she didn't find her Vital before the keeper passed, she would face the potential of being stranded, without a clan, and with nowhere to turn. No doubt Istamaethoriel wanted another path for her. No doubt part of the reason the woman had searched so long and so hard was so that she would have a new home, a safe one, in which she could start over without any aspersions on her character.

She pushed all of that aside. Her first concern had to be the safety of the clan. "If you need information, and someone trustworthy to gain it, Faradin or Jeynah would be better choices." Faradin, as her Second, would have magic at his disposal, and he'd always been gracious with the humans in the towns they traded with. Jeynah, though not as friendly to humans, could not only tolerate them, but could also catch meanings in their slightest movements. She was also their go-to sneak, able to go anywhere without getting caught.

"I need you." It was the tone of someone who was finished talking. Despite herself, Pinga felt excited. Normally, these things were left up to a vote; those who wished to participate would step forward, and the keeper would choose the best suited of the group. But she was glad she'd been ordered to go by Istamaethoriel; while she held little hope that she might find her Vital at this meeting, she couldn't wait to see this temple, to meet these new people. To learn something new.

She would take it as an adventure. An adventure she couldn't fail, for the sake of the clan. She tapped the book absently against her thigh and wondered what this odd _shemlen_ religion actually looked like.

* * *

It had all gone wrong.

It had all gone wrong, and it was all his fault.

The world tore itself asunder, broken into viridean crystals, gaping wide in a maw of teeth and brittle holes. He watched, his eyes wide, as his plans tore apart, fell into pieces and cracked on the ground. He had wanted this power unleashed. He had handed the weapon to that man, had paved the way to this future. His hands clenched around his staff. His breath choked in his lungs. He'd thought he'd had nothing to lose. And just like before, always, over and over, once again, he had been wrong.

* * *

Though she couldn't fully remember what had happened in that temple, she knew very well what she had expected to happen, and all of this was not that. The destruction of the temple had been jarring, as she recalled her journey to its face, the sweeping gates and the ostentatious towers, the way the very presence of the building bespoke wealth, influence, and power. A way of screaming to the world that they, too, had a religion. From what she knew from the humans she'd met, this was truly how they saw their religion. Those who knew the truth shouldn't need to shout it so loudly.

Now, she wondered if perhaps these temples weren't a very bad idea for a completely different reason - their destruction seemed to always be met with deadly reactions. A war for the first, a cataclysmic event for the second.

But while she'd expected to meet several humans - and had expected all of them to believe as fervently in their religion as their temples indicated - she hadn't expected to find another elf with the humans. She also hadn't expected the frisson of excitement at their meeting, but, after speaking with him, she understood why she had felt it. He was a wanderer, unaffiliated with any clan. If there was anyone who might know of another lost soul whose Vital had yet to be known, it might be him. And more, he knew so much about the Rift, about magic. She might be able to bring such news to her people.

And so, for this reason, for the sake of garnering more information on this war and the new Rift in the sky for her clan, and for her own safety, she chose to stay and help the Inquisition, despite the horrible moniker the humans had chosen to grace her with.

Her steps took her through the odd maze of Haven; she'd found a book on the place and had found it to have once belonged to a blood cult. The idea of it fascinated her; this place had also believed in the single, human Maker, and it had chosen to follow this Maker by killing. None of the clans she'd ever heard of had ever faced such trouble. Each knew the basics of the stories, though some might have gleaned more information than others, and they simply hadn't learned of the new information yet. And certainly, words, phrases, might have been lost in the oral history. But they each knew what the gods expected of them, what they had given and what they wanted in return. Humans seemed to have less information, or less surety of their information, if they truly founded such different sects to their faith. No wonder they latched on to the idea of her being chosen by one of their demigods.

She passed the pub, places she'd heard the traders speak of but had never before entered; inside was the sound of singing, no one listening to the words as they should have; the message was nearly lost in the laughter and garbled conversations. The sound of clinking glass, the scent of ale. The place seemed exciting. But her gaze was on the rise above the bar, beside the stairs that led to what she now knew to be an alchemist's home. From where she stood, she could just barely make out the form of the Inquisition's other elven recruit, his bald head gleaming slightly in the snowy sunlight. She passed the bar and made her way up the stairs. Solas looked at her as she came up.

"The Chosen of Andraste," he said in greeting, and she had to bite her teeth to keep from grimacing. "A blessed hero sent to save us all."

She was no stranger to mocking. She just wasn't certain what she'd done here to deserve it. "I didn't ask for this," she said. It had never been worth trying to explain herself to her clan, but still she thought she should try. "But someone has to find a way to seal the Breach."

"Spoken nobly, indeed."

Well, she couldn't say she was surprised. At least people all reacted the same.

"You think I'm mocking you," he said. She nearly jumped. "This age has made people cynical."

He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't mocking her?

She grinned.

Their conversation got waylaid, unsurprisingly; the moment he spoke of the Fade, of having actually traveled there, having seen things in the past and carried new knowledge - she lost herself in new wonder. The things he spoke of, she had never even thought to imagine. She spent hours grilling him on his knowledge of the Fade, of his opinions on spirits and demons and magic. Some of what he said went directly against the clan's teachings, yet his logic remained sound. She listened, enraptured, as he spoke of seeing the Battle of Ostagar, of watching the death and destruction, the betrayal and the hopeless cause.

She flushed when she realized just how much of his time she had taken. She looked down to the ground, studying the snow drifts piled against the stone. "I'm sorry," she said, once the conversation finally died down. "I always do this. I didn't mean to interrogate you."

He chuckled. She dared look up at the sound. The gentle smile that graced the elf's face caught her breath in her throat. She remained speechless as he spoke. "There's no need for apologies. I quite enjoyed our talk."

She blushed. She had no idea why. "Then," she said, and hesitated. _Nothing happens when you do nothing_ , she told herself, and took the plunge. "Would you mind answering one last question?"

A single eyebrow rose at that. "Certainly, if it is in my power to do so."

Just ask, just ask, just ask. "I know this may be a bit personal, but are you in touch with any other wanderers?" Horrified that she was even asking, she ducked her head again. "I've been searching... for my Vital."

The man stiffened, and she threw her shoulders back to keep from taking an instinctive step back. "I'm afraid I've been on my own for quite some time," he said finally. "Those I meet are not close enough to me to share their Attributes."

She nodded. She should have figured as much. But it was worth asking, she told herself. She'd needed to know.

The man before her hesitated then, as well, and she looked up to catch his lips parted around words that wouldn't come. She tilted her head and smiled, let him know that he could ask.

"Why do you ask?"

She cleared her throat. Getting into every reason would mean speaking of clan concerns - and would show the tenuous grip she had with her people. Speaking of the Attribute itself would be difficult without bringing up such things. "My keeper has tried to find a match for me with the other clans, but every keeper she's met with has given her nothing. It's looking like I might..." But she couldn't say it. She took a deep breath. "And so I thought it best to ask, even if nothing came of it. I'm sorry for speaking of something so personal."

Solas nodded once, slowly. "Understandable," he said finally. She recognized the end of a conversation when she heard one. She left him, the feeling of having lost something gripping her. She would have loved to continue speaking with him about his journeys in the Fade. It was too bad her wild hope had severed what small bond she'd managed to form.

* * *

He watched as Pinga of Clan Lavellan took charge of the budding Inquisition, her small body marching through the grasses of the Hinterlands with the well-practiced ease of a Dalish, her entire history formed around the nomadic lifestyle. Combine that with her hunter's capabilities, and she could walk the entire day with little to no difficulty. Even the Seeker could not do the same, and the dwarf, a very hospitable Mr. Varric Tethras, needed far more frequent breaks. She engaged with the humans of the village they found easily, listened attentively to needs and complaints alike, and seemed genuinely interested in the lives of those around her. From what he'd seen of her, she thirsted for knowledge.

Of all people to be drawn to his Orb, he thought she might be the one most fit for it. Perhaps, unbenownst to either of them, she had been called to it in some way, as the Evanuris' highest-ranked slaves had once been drawn to a certain 'god.' Perhaps that was how she had come into contact with it? It was one of countless things to ponder; without her memories, knowing just what had gone wrong was lost to him. In any case, at least she proved herself capable of both battles and politics. And what she didn't know, she seemed intent on learning. When she wasn't in the field or meeting with the other leaders of the Inquisition, he could usually find her huddled in the church reading. She was like an owl, the very symbol of fierce wisdom and individual strength.

Somehow, watching her made him think of the words etched on his skin. He mourned what might have been, despite the lines' foreboding context. No matter what difficulties he might have faced, he would have liked to have that perfect partner. But what had once been an insignificant matter - time - had become his enemy.

Yet he couldn't help but find some small comfort in knowing his people hadn't lost their Attributes along with everything else. In fact, it seemed humans also got them, though in shorter lines. He had read up on it himself after being caught unaware by the Herald's question on the subject. He found it surprising that they still, for the most part, found the Attributes forming. Most even had them form regularly on their tenth birthdays, with a few rare souls gaining the marks of their match later, with a wider age gap between them. It seemed their souls had somehow realigned to meet in the same time. For a single day, he allowed himself to wonder if, perhaps, his Vital had also survived the change, had been able to wait for him to awaken. But he was an immortal, and his Vital would have been caught in a suddenly mortal state. His match would have woken at some time in those thousand years. The chance of it having been in the past few decades was phenomenally low.

The loss had crippled him all over again, to the point where the Herald had taken one look at him during their travels and ordered a rest.

He had never thought to _not_ meet his Vital. As he'd battled, he'd feared the formation of his Attribute, feared his loyalties being divided between his cause and his match. And if she'd been born, and his enemies had found out? But nothing had formed, not even as he prepared to sever their world from its own other half, and he'd felt nothing but relief. Then he'd woken, and he'd found his dreams to have been real. He had nothing, once again, but his cause. Except now, he brandished a scar on his chest, a reminder of the price of doing what was necessary.

* * *

Slowly, she took over the role of Herald. Slowly, she chose the destiny of the human race, befriended the mages in the way her clan had taught her. She brought them with her to the Breach, and with them, she sealed it. Chaos came to Haven, breathed fire into the mountain's ice, and dropped the world onto her. When she came out, she found herself Inquisitor, leader of a religion she wanted no part of, role model for a race that had shunned hers.

And suddenly, she found herself surrounded by those who called themselves her Vital.

Without knowing her words, without having any clue about her at all, they all came to her, nearly telling her their own Attributes just for the sake of arguing their case. Over and over again, she had to explain to them that it wasn't possible. When asked why, all she had to do was ask if they believed in any of the Elven legends. When they said no, she explained that her Attribute linked directly to her people.

Of course, she should have expected the rumors that inevitably spread; suddenly she had countless people coming up to her with little to no knowledge of her people's beliefs, spouting more and more ridiculous theories as to how their own Attributes might match to hers. She shuddered, finally seeking shelter in Skyhold's library. Thankfully, Leliana's people caught the stragglers still chasing her, and she was left in the dubious safety of the second floor. Dorian looked up from a book he was reading as she passed, took one look at her, and smirked. "More fun with the little ducklings, Inquisitor?"

She ran a hand along her hair, patting down the loose threads. A breath gusted from her lips before she could control herself. "So many suddenly want to be matched to me. It's uncomfortable."

He grinned and placed his book to the side. "You're the Inquisitor! The chosen of Andraste! Who wouldn't want to lay claim to you?" She blushed, and he laughed. "Come now, you can't tell me this is a surprise to you." After several moments passed, his brows drew low and he stood. "Really?"

"I've never had..." She stopped, not knowing if it was appropriate to bring up how few members of her clan had wanted to be linked with her. She thought of Tamren, who had wanted to be with her, but hadn't wanted to be her Vital. How he'd confessed to finding her intelligent, and attractive, but hadn't wished to be the other part of a soul like her own. Hearing his reservations had given her relief that she'd resisted showing him her Attribute, but had only cemented her belief that her clan would always consider her dangerous, a rogue element not unlike her father.

But Dorian, instead of waiting for her to somehow finish her response, simply held up his hand and ushered her deeper into his private nook. "Listen, _parum dama,_ " he said. "You are now a lady of import in the political world. Probably not something a Dalish elf need worry about before, hm?"

She shook her head, wondering at the words he'd spoken.

"Then here's a friendly tip." Dorian held up a single finger. "Don't trust anyone with your secrets. All of those people want some of your power for themselves, and they're ready to leech it out however they can. These idiots wouldn't be matches for you even if they _did_ have Attributes that might match yours. All right?"

She nodded. With her own single finger, she bopped his and smiled. "Thank you, Dorian."

It was true that this wasn't a situation she was prepared for. No part of traveling in an _aravel_ could train her for this. But that just meant she needed to learn more about the subject. Certainly, she should no longer say anything about her own Attribute, for fear of people guessing correctly.

In fact, perhaps she should put away the idea of Attributes. She didn't have time to search for her Vital, even if she had something to go on. And the fact that, even now, with all this influence, she still had yet to find anyone who could match her - had in fact received word that, after her clan moved to Wycome, Keeper Istamaethoriel had found two more clans that once more held no news of a potential match - perhaps she should count herself amongst the Lost. The idea was, for a moment, enough to strike her down. Dorian's hand came up to squeeze her shoulder, obviously reacting to her distress. She smiled for him and made her way down to her room. Leliana's people walked her to her door, scaring off any who had considered speaking with her as soon as she left. She thanked them and closed the door behind her.

In all honesty, she wasn't even remotely averse to letting go of her Attribute. She should have been; she'd been so hopeful that she would find her Vital, that she would find a new home where she could be accepted without fear or suspicion. Yet now that she had that place, she found she needn't find some perfect match.

Instead, she thought, her back against the door, perhaps she'd found someone even better.

She looked down to the floor and flushed. Her lips twitched into a smile. Perhaps it was too soon to label these feelings more than innocent affection. But they were real, and the man she found comfort in only steps away, and perhaps that was more important than some ill-omen words etched beneath her scar.

* * *

He showed her his world.

Of course, it was not truly his, any more than the sun or a bit of forest or a single room in _Tarasyl'an Te'las_. Yet nonetheless, it was his. So many had lost their abilities to walk these roads in the Fade, to trace the paths of memories or speak to those spirits who would hold the information they sought. Pinga was one who had lost all touch with her magic, with the part of her that should be as natural as her breath. But even as he mourned the loss, he found himself hopeful. She loved to learn. She was as giddy to hear of the Fade as he was to walk within it. For her, he wished to share the gift.

His heart thrummed in his chest as he walked the steps with her, speaking of the time he'd met her. His body thrilled at the nearness, at the false feeling of warmth as he stood beside her in this place, where he knew the nooks and crannies of thought and belief as well as he knew the shape of his own face.

Something about her attention on him brought a heightened awareness to his senses. She acted, always, as if the person speaking before her spoke of something important, even if they merely complained of missing books or listed foolish rumors. Her attentiveness to him should not have felt special. Yet somehow, with her leaning forward as if to catch his words that instant faster, her eyes wide at his stories, her breath held tight when he gave her advice, it somehow felt as if the very air around them snapped with a synergistic energy.

It felt like the world was waiting for something.

Perhaps he should not have said as much.

She'd caught the slip. Of course she did; though he tried to be careful, he knew she saw more than she let on. He allowed himself to show this short glimpse of his thoughts - how the world, once populated by the walking dead, now shone with a life he hadn't expected. She cast off the words as he'd hoped she would, thinking he was attempting to charm her. He allowed the misapprehension, and the conversation dwindled into easy companionship. Still, he could feel a tension in her, and thought she might be reconsidering the nuances of his diction. Then she turned to him, touched his cheek gently, and guided his lips to hers. Something like electricity shocked through him. His body responded as if he were less than a single century old.

Her own message delivered, she turned, her cheeks red beneath her purple _vallaslin_ , and made to leave.

Unacceptable.

He grabbed her back, knowing as he did that it was better if he let her go. Knowing it would be better to let this kiss be left unanswered, to let her think he wasn't interested.

But he found he could not allow such a lie to exist.

He caught a glimpse of her wide indigo eyes before he crushed his lips to hers, the force of his desire slamming them together, his kiss more powerful than the hesitant touch she'd given. And yet despite the fury of his want, she answered in kind, leaning fully against him, opening her mouth pliantly, then, as he delved within, mimicking his movements. Learning. Always learning. The hot coal of lust burst into bright flame. He thought he might have moaned.

Barely, with little control left, he forced himself to pull back. This woman was not for him. She was matched to another, though she had yet to find them. It was he who was Lost, left without his Vital forever.

And worse, he thought, finally breaking away entirely, he planned to betray her. Her. The world. Everything.

"We shouldn't," he said, and forced down the whining feeling in his chest, his stomach. "It isn't right. Not even here."

Not here. Not in the waking world. Not anywhere.

* * *

She woke up with a jerk, certain, for a moment, that she felt the chill of Haven's snow on her cheek. She sucked in a breath and touched her lips. The fire crackled lowly in the hearth.

She had truly done it. Taken the leap, accepted the person she'd found herself drawn to. A gift from Mythal, if ever there was one. And she'd confessed her feelings inside a dream. A dream! In which he'd shown her around Haven as if they'd walked the halls themselves. She'd been so certain of its reality, of the Rift, of the snow, the prison cells, the feel of the rough cloth of his tunic beneath her fingers as she gripped him tight.

Her lips trembled. She felt the heat of her own breath against the skin of her palm. Both this and the dream felt equally real. She was no mage; she had no chance of ever recognizing the Fade for what it was, so of course she hadn't caught the very impossibility of where they were until Solas mentioned it himself.

But still! To have walked within the Fade so accurately! To have been guided to one place - one memory of a place, specifically - and to have done so with another! Her conversation with Solas had truly happened - they had engaged in a sharing of thoughts and goals; _communication had occurred_ \- and they had done so in the Fade!

She squealed and bounced back on her bed. And in that very real dream, he had kissed her back!

* * *

He stood at his desk, leaning over the papers and tomes and trying to pretend he was researching and not lost in a myriad of inappropriate thoughts.

"I would say congratulations, but you don't yet know what you've found."

He hardly looked up at Cole's sudden appearance on the side of his desk; he had half expected his conflicting emotions to call out to the good spirit. "How are things, Cole?" he asked, gently manipulating the spirit's thoughts to other matters. It was not something he did lightly, and it took significant energy in his weakened state, but as his thoughts circled around his plans for the future, the necessity could not be denied.

"Pain in the square; she didn't mean it, but the barbs can't be broken, the bleeding can't be stopped. I'll help her after you." Cole tilted his head slightly, though of course he instinctively hid his head with his hat. Spirits did not show faces, have expressions; demons gave these expressions for the purposes of another, as a Venus fly trap oozed honey to lure the fly. Spirits had no need for such things, though the kinder ones concerned themselves with how their faces might be perceived. Best, of course, to hide them entirely. "You ache. You want what you have, but need what you don't. The lost is lifting, loosing, losing. Let it go and it is gone."

He sighed and turned his attention to the spirit, resigned to its refusal to be dissuaded. "Sometimes you can't have what you want, Cole."

"But you can," he said, and there was nothing in the spirit's voice save confusion. He stood up from the desk and flashed up to perch on the edge of the wooden scaffolding against the wall. The scaffolding beside his paintings. "The owl calls for her hound."

The words flittered across his mind. He knew, of course, who Cole spoke of. He wasn't certain, however, why the spirit referred to Pinga as an owl, or why he himself was called a hound and not the usual wolf. Then he understood, and his lips thinned. "You shouldn't speak of a person's Attribute, Cole. It's considered rude."

"But it's yours." Cole dug his feet into the slats of the scaffolding and leaned forward, pressing his hands together. "Your soul spoke the words, and she read them."

He inhaled sharply. Slowly, he moved around his desk and stood beneath Cole. From his vantage point, he could see the bottom of the spirit's eyes. He kept his voice carefully low, conscious suddenly of the people above him, the soft pads of footsteps back and forth across the library floor. "Do you mean to tell me her Attribute matches my own?"

Cole nodded emphatically. "Yours, and hers, and both." A short pause, and then, "why are you sad?"

He looked away. This couldn't be. It was the very nightmare he'd feared. The pain of Pinga's advances had been bitter enough without knowing she was his Vital. The idea of turning from that mind, that inquisitive soul, had been acid in the back of his throat as he'd pulled away from her. Now he knew it matched his own. How was he to do what he had to, knowing this?

Cole flashed back down, standing now beside him. "You hurt. Let me help."

"No," he said shortly. "This is something you cannot help with." He put a hand to his temple and walked in a daze back to his seat. Cole hovered beside him.

He should have known. How many times had he noted the strange thrill that chased him whenever he stood near her? Hadn't he himself noted how, in watching her, in being near her, he had felt the world shift around him? How had he closed his mind to such an answer?

But how was he to know? A young elf from a single clan, a child who had seen less than three decades of time, who would be dead before seeing her first century pass.

The pain of the thought nearly brought him to his knees. Pages scattered as he slammed his hand on his desk for balance. His Vital was mortal. His heart pounded heavily, thickly, his very blood resisting this moment. And as he looked down at his hand, he recalled the echo of his magic's touch on Pinga's own. He'd wondered what might have called Pinga to touching his orb. Now he knew. He chuckled dryly in his throat. Bitter knowledge.

Beneath his hand sat a roll of paper listing the possible links of the shards to the Fade. He didn't see the words; he needn't know what he'd written, even if he was to continue such mindless research now. What he saw was the shape and swirl of his handwriting. He paled as he thought of how many times the Inquisitor had come into his room, had looked at his desk as they'd spoken. Had she seen? Had she learned before him, with that mind that flew with wild abandon?

He grabbed up his notes with shaking fingers, his thoughts only on hiding the evidence, on hiding his handwriting, just in case. This was not something that could be known. Their actions - that kiss - it could go no further. He couldn't allow it. He needed - he had to - he had a duty to correct his mistakes. He couldn't afford such a distraction as - his mind caught on the look on her face as she brought up the phrase he'd used, his _felt the whole world change._ The slight, almost disbelieving smile, the brightness in those eyes that spoke of new knowledge, new insight. Distraction was not the right word to describe her. Allure would be better.

But no. She shouldn't know. She should never have to learn of who her Vital was, or what he planned to do. He had to stow it away, put it where he put all his other regrets. He slammed all his handwritten notes into his single desk drawer and placed both hands on the desk's surface. His head hung low between his shoulders. "Thank you," he managed, "for telling me, Cole. Now forget."

A single, interminable moment passed, in which Solas' shoulders shook with the effort of the magic he used. Normally, this would be a simple matter. He would have twisted Cole's attentions with hardly a thought. Now, the effort nearly sapped him entirely, and all he could manage was to avert Cole's attention to the woman in the market square. Cole tilted his head to the sound of the woman's distress and vanished.

For several long moments, all Solas could do was hunker down where he stood and try to breathe. Something in his chest - no, he realized now, finally, when it was too late - something _on_ his chest - trembled at what he'd chosen. He raised one shaking hand and rubbed the heel of his palm against the nearly painful sensation, directly over the markings of his Vital's - of Pinga's - handwriting. It all felt horribly wrong.

But it would be better, in the end. For them both.

* * *

The world was so much bigger than she'd ever imagined. The Hinterlands had seemed strange enough, at first; there had been no trees to use for cover when she'd fought, the high ground much too open for her tastes. And then there had been Redcliffe Village, so much bigger than the small human hamlets she'd visited before.

Then there had been the Stormy Coast, an open area of perpetual rain. She'd trailed rivers, swum in lakes and ponds, but had never before smelled the sharp tang of the sea on the wind. And then the Fallow Mire! Where death danced and the land and water lay dormant in their mourning.

Every time she left, she found herself making excuses as to why Solas should accompany her. He'd said he needed to time to consider what they'd initiated, and she had to agree with the logic of his choice, if nothing else. She had introduced herself as someone searching for her Vital, and she knew very well he carried something that burdened him. He traveled alone, outside the Dalish clans - and, indeed, seemed different from any elf she'd ever met. Of course, that could be the infatuation talking.

But when they'd danced at the Winter Palace, she could have sworn the very world had held its breath. Life, energy, had tingled up from her fingers, from her hip where he touched her. As if magic suddenly sung like a current beneath her skin.

Something that powerful couldn't be worked out through logic alone. Despite her desire for her Vital, she couldn't imagine wanting, or being wanted, more than she wanted Solas. If she was matched to him, that would be wonderful. But if she wasn't, then that would be perfectly fine, too.

Perhaps he wasn't as ready for such a thing. Perhaps he didn't think _she_ was ready for such a thing. Perhaps, for a wanderer, the idea of a relationship was disconcerting.

In any case, if he had to wonder about whether or not to be with her, she would rather he do so next to her. To answer any questions he might have, or soothe the tension in him when it spiked too high. And to remind him that logic wasn't the only way to make a decision.

From the looks she thought she could sometimes feel from him, her efforts might even be paying off.

* * *

He had known better than to initiate that dance with her.

For weeks, he had managed to keep his hands to himself. Though his eyes had wandered at times, catching on the play of sunlight on the curls that framed her face, or those thin fingers as they wrapped around her bow, or in the dark sway of her hips as she walked, he had never lost himself enough to touch. Until that night.

He had known better.

She had been beautiful, her hair quickly put back together in a desperate attempt to look stylish enough to speak before the nobles, to talk Florienne down before she had the chance to kill the Orlesian empress. And despite the stress he caught in those stiff shoulders, she had performed magnificently. She had stood before a room of humans who would as soon drink her blood as look at her, and had called them all to arms.

And then, when he'd gone to find her on the balcony, she had asked, as if whispering a sin, whether she'd made the right decision.

Her advisers, her followers, even her friends, could all forget, sometimes, that their Inquisitor was a simple Dalish elf from a roaming clan. Sometimes the knowledge caught even him off-guard; she reminded him so strongly of the warrior women of his age that he sometimes found himself stunned in place at the reminders of her humble life. Had he come upon her clan and not those he'd met, would he have been welcomed as she had welcomed him? Or was she different, as different to the rest of the world as she was to him?

But as they'd stood there together, in that moment, the moonlight turning her hair to silver, all he could see was a young woman, her head bent low with the weight of decisions she silently bore. Choices she would never have needed to make were it not for him. He remembered Mythal, how, in rare instances, he could see even in her the burden of command, how exhausting carrying the world could be. And here this one was, dragging this chaotic world by the bootstraps to get it to fall in line, out here alone despite having three advisers and three more allies, all purportedly there to ease her struggles. Alone, without her Vital, because her Vital was one she did not deserve. One who could not touch.

Before he'd known it, he had held out his hand. He could not have her, dare not claim her. But for that one night, for that one moment, she had been his.

* * *

They grew more and more in sync with one another.

In battles, she could now anticipate when Solas would yank on the Veil, pull at the tears and grab an enemy in its grip. She could loose an arrow almost before he did it and know the enemy would not move, that she would hit her target. They would fall into position a meter from one another, both off to the side as Cassandra or Blackwall faced the enemies with their shields; she would lie down on one knee and Solas would freeze her enemies in place.

They worked as one, always, as much on the battlefield as off it.

It wasn't like she never felt any concern. She'd always wanted her Vital, had never stopped searching before. And even now, a part of her wondered, almost every day, if Solas couldn't be the one. But the only way to know would be to offer him the words of her Attribute, and after so many doing so to her, she felt uncomfortable at the very idea. So, too, did Solas' own obvious reluctance stop her.

He had held out his hand, asked her to dance with him. "Quickly, before the music stops," he'd said, as if some magic spell would end the moment the musicians stopped playing.

She'd written Istamaethoriel on the subject. Her keeper was busy enough with her clan's safety up in Wycome, yet Pinga knew the woman as much as a mother as her keeper, and she needed her advice. She should have known her keeper's words would be little more than factual statements; that was how they'd always spoken to one another, how they'd connected enough to become the family they were now. Her keeper had reminded her that, while there were several couples who had chosen to get together without the bond of being Vital to each other, there were several such cases in which one or the other would meet their Vital - and the person they'd been with, sometimes for over a decade, would simply no longer matter. They would become insignificant, and always, these people would go with their Vitals and leave their old partner behind.

She'd already known that, of course. There were several documented cases, some even in a few books in Skyhold's library. Yet she couldn't imagine Solas ever becoming inconsequential to her.

Still, the idea had likely crossed his own mind, as well, and it was a serious concern for them both.

In the end, it just made more sense to learn one another's Attributes, speak honestly of their own concerns, and determine the best path for them both. Of course, thinking of taking that step made her think that she was consigning herself to a long-term commitment - or, even worse, a kind of rejection she might not be prepared for.

The problem, really, was that there was no one way to ensure one was speaking with their Vital. Usually, little more than a sense of camaraderie could be felt. She'd read every book available in the library, had scoured the familiar rhythms of her clan's stories. Her clan, and even a couple Andrastian texts, had tales of meetings in which people simply _knew_ , as if their worlds had reshaped themselves as their gazes touched. And after that, when the two Vitals were linked, sensations of the other's mind would even come to them. Attraction could feel similarly to such a sensation, however, and it wasn't even guaranteed that it would even occur. Those stories occurred rarely, usually between the gods or some religious leaders in the human faith.

But that didn't stop the swell of hope when she recalled the feeling of sparks that had lit her from within when Solas had first gripped her hand.

Of course, if they truly were linked, that meant Fen'Harel was watching over their union. And didn't that suit? she wondered suddenly. Didn't it suit that Fen'Harel was somehow at play for what had happened to the sky, to the very world? Wasn't he the only one free enough to make such changes? What he could gain from creating the Rift, she couldn't imagine, but understanding the Wolf was not something most mortals could do. The best would be able to do little more to avoid him, and, if caught up in his trap, to mitigate the disaster and outrun him.

Could she do that? Could Solas? Her Attribute warned her to not get trapped in the 'hound's' snare. That meant there was a chance she would. Would she drag Solas into such a thing, if they did choose to start a true relationship?

Before worrying about that, she should worry about whether he even wished to get into a relationship with her. Anxiety gripped her at the thought; she cared about him quite a bit. And though all evidence pointed to him being interested, as well, she couldn't help but think of her clansmen, on Tamren, who had been against the very idea of being with her for anything past - what? The chance to brag of being with the accursed one?

She took several deep, steady breaths. It wasn't of benefit to continue wondering aimlessly. She had the means by which to garner information; she should take it. She had waited long enough.

But before she could speak, Solas beat her to it.

* * *

Perhaps it had been foolish of him, but he had needed to understand. She had - she was the antithesis of everything he'd believed. He'd thought his people lost. To speak with her, to learn that he had been wrong. She truly did change everything.

And thinking that, in one moment of weakness, when she'd asked where he was going with his questions, he had told her the truth: that, knowing her - but no. He had said it wrong. He had spoken of their kiss, had mentioned how he could not forget it. He'd meant that he couldn't forget _her_ , that the moment she'd kissed him, the moment he'd learned she was his Vital, he had seen her, the world, for what he hadn't believed it could be since he'd awoken. He'd meant - he'd meant that she was _real_.

And he'd also meant that he wanted her.

He hadn't meant to. He'd known better. But as usual, she picked up on that which he didn't wish her to see. (This time, of course, it could hardly be considered difficult; he had practically thrown his feelings into her face.) And she'd chosen to offer herself to him.

It had been the sexiest thing he'd seen. The way she moved a step closer, the way she wrapped her hands behind her back, giving him full access. Full power. Full control. And she'd lifted herself up, just slightly, just within his space - a single dip of his chin, and her lips would have been his. An offering.

A sacrificial lamb.

He had turned away.

She had grabbed his arm. He had felt her fingers tremble against him as she begged him not to leave. And what her offer could not make him take, her quiet plea managed to make him give.

Despite the desperation in her action, her touch was light, barely strong enough to wrinkle the folds of his fabric. And yet he could feel the energy of it as if lightning sparked along his skin; the warmth of her hand brought every sense to the forefront. His body was reacting to his Vital. And like a beast, he fell on her, his hands dragging her to him, pulling her head into position and - there were no possible words to describe the feeling of her body beneath his fingers, his skin tingling madly at the contact. The taste of her, the pliant stance, the eager repetition of what he showed her; she added in the bit they'd done before, in the Fade, and the reminder had him hard, clenching.

Like a beast? Like a _wolf_.

 _No_. The word echoed in his mind, even as he fell headfirst into the abyss. He knew what this would do. To her. To him. This was cruel. He shouldn't.

How couldn't he?

She was wise, eager, careful. She cared about this world, enough to worry about decisions she'd had no choice but to make, decisions that considered the future, that considered honor and goodness. And for some reason, without - hopefully without, though he was certain she would have brought it up if she'd learned - even knowing that he was her Vital. She had made this decision for no other reason but that she liked Solas, the wanderer. The man. Not for his power or name or abilities, not for what he could do for her. Despite seeing him in a rage after the loss of his friend, despite seeing him bitter and voluntarily alone, despite his leaving without word - every time, she sought merely to understand, not to change. She saw him and did not turn away.

She was his Vital. And at every turn, she showed him why.

He thought once more about his Attribute and pulled, finally, away. But he couldn't let go of her completely, her or the breathtaking lightning that shot out at every point of contact.

"We should talk about this," she said, and he knew he was lost when all he could feel was horror at the idea of loss.

Instead of letting go, as he knew he should, he held on tighter. "About what in particular?" he asked. His voice was stiff despite his efforts.

She backed away, and reluctantly, he let her go. Her gaze danced away from his for a moment - just long enough for his chest to shudder under the sudden weight of his ribs. But of course, she quickly mustered her courage and looked back up at him. That determination always made the blue in her indigo eyes seemed to overcome the usual purple. "I need to tell you my Attribute. In case it becomes a problem."

Had she found out about him? But no, her words didn't suit that sort of knowledge. "A problem?" he echoed. "How so?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. She shot a furtive glance around, then gestured him inside. Despite himself, he found himself curious. He let her lead him back into her bedroom, watched her close the balcony door behind them. She took a deep breath. "I know it's rude to offer your Attribute when you aren't both actively seeking your Vital and have no reason to think you're linked," she said, and all he felt in that moment was relief that she hadn't learned. And then, on the heels of that, shame, because now that he'd failed to resist being with her, what was the point in hiding it from her? "And after dealing with the less couth of the human nobility, I understand why. But," Pinga continued, "my Attribute... it warns against something." And now she had his full attention. "I know you don't believe in the elven gods. And that's fine. I'm not going to demand you believe as I do."

His breath seized in his lungs. His chest burned. A warning. About the elven gods? Did her Attribute warn of the Evanuris, of what might happen to her if he let them loose?

Almost, then and there, he abandoned his plans. If her words marked her death at the hands of Dirthamen, or, please, no, Elgarnan? How could he destroy the Veil knowing that he would fail at containing them, knowing they would take his Vital away from him? Wasn't it cruel enough to be tied to a mortal?

He realized she was waiting for something from him and nodded, unable to speak through the lump in his throat.

She bit her lip. Once again, she hesitated, her hands continuously lifting up as if to act on something, only to fall again. She'd said once that she had yet to find even a hint of her potential Vital. Did that mean she'd yet to show her Attribute to anyone? Could he be the first?

"I believe the warning to be real," she whispered, and gently pulled her scarf from around her neck. He hadn't been prepared for how the sight of her neck, with no scarf or armor to hide it, would make his pulse race. The line of her shirt ended just at that crease by the neck, far enough that he could pull it back and - "It may be difficult to read," she said. Her voice nearly wobbled; the sound of it cut his thoughts off at the quick. She was afraid. And, going by the dark flush traveling from her cheeks to the tips of her ears and below the line of her collar - and despite seeing her upset, a part of him wanted to see just how far down that blush traced - she was clearly embarrassed, as well.

But even at its worst, his handwriting was by no means illegible. Finally, he managed to get his throat working again. He swallowed, loudly, and said, "if you want to show me your Attribute, I will honor the gift."

The words were the Dalish's, not those from his time. Still, though they seemed horribly inadequate to him, they seemed to bring her some sort of comfort. She smiled at him in misplaced gratitude and slowly unbuttoned her shirt.

This was unfair, and beyond the limits of his control.

He was already reaching out to take over when she suddenly stopped, only a few buttons down. "I..." She cleared her throat, but still made no effort to meet his eyes. His own anxiety ratcheted up in response to her own. A strange sensation to feel alongside such strong desire. "I'll read it out for you, if you need me to."

He realized he hadn't actually comforted her on that topic. But when he opened his mouth to assure her he could read even the most difficult of scripts, all that resulted was a garbled sound of horror. Pinga had pulled back the left sleeve of her shirt. On her shoulder, trailing down dangerously low across her chest, disappearing beneath the stretched line of fabric, sat a long, jagged pink scar. A knife wound. It widened as it bit into the top of her collarbone, having obviously cut deeper as it met the greater resistance of the bone. And beneath it, partly buried beneath the broken flesh, lay a horribly familiar lettering.

"I know," she said, though he hadn't spoken. Her lips trembled as she tried to smile. "Not very pretty, is it?"

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out as if to touch, though he feared to. Logically, he knew the chance of causing greater pain was long past; though the wound still shone a bright pink at its deepest points, the faded, blurry look of its edges spoke of age. Great age, and great stretching. An alteration of bodily structure. She had still been a child when this wound had been carved into her. The idea of it made him see red. "What happened?"

Still, she did not meet his eyes. "That's a - a long story. One I'm willing to share, but only after we discuss this." And with one of the hands still holding down her shirt, she pointed at the Attribute.

The injury was not something he wanted to let go. The thought of anyone attacking her - and as a _child_ , no less - made him want to hunt down the perpetrator, pull on his ancient magic and rend the offender's mind to sunder. And this time, no amount of soft reprimands would stop him.

But the desire to know what his soul had written on her reared itself within him once again, and he finally read her words. And when he did, he turned his head in shame.

Despite Pinga's concerns, the scar did little to hide the words on her skin. And they certainly sounded like his. Useless, cruel abstractions, distortions that hinted at its meaning, obfuscated enough for someone to question. And it truly did warn her - against being with him. Just as his own bittersweet, more direct Attribute did.

He remembered then that she knew nothing of his plans and realized she perceived the danger as from Fen'Harel directly - that, for whatever reason, her so-called trickster god had marked her and her Vital for some sinister purpose.

He couldn't tell her. He could never - she would never understand.

Finally, he turned back to her. She had covered herself back up, her shoulders up to her chin as she waited for some sort of reprisal. He reached out and grabbed her hand, slowly bringing it up between them. She watched its progress with a rigid tension in her spine and jaw. Her shirt had been moved back into place, covering the bottom of the message and the worst of the scar.

Without a word, he used his free hand to pull down his own tunic and showed her his Attribute.

She gasped. He knew she would recognize her own handwriting, just as he recognized his own. Her fingers spasmed around his as she read and re-read his message, her eyes going from wide to squinted, as she fought against the sorrow the message evoked. Yet, even as she battled against tears, her body slumped in relief. "It's you," she said finally. The words were little more than a breath.

She grinned. Even as she read more irrefutable proof that Fen'Harel would destroy her, she smiled and leaned into him. Her free hand slowly raised to trace over his mark. His skin prickled at the contact; for a short, interminable instant, he could feel her. Her shock, her wonder. The breathless anticipation that preceded the slight hitch of her breath. He felt the relief, the profound relief, so powerful it nearly eclipsed everything else, and knew before it happened that the feeling would force her to blink back those tears as they came more prominently to the surface.

She was happy it was him. Joyous, thankful, praying fervent praise to false gods for bringing him to her - an irony that even then could not escape him. She thanked those who would enslave her, who hated him, for making her linked to him, for not making her have to fight against her Attribute in order to stay with him. She _wanted_ to be mated, fated-sworn, to an apostate with no home. To him. Solas. It was enough.

It was more than he'd hoped. And all that he'd feared.

* * *

They were mated.

Solas was her Vital.

Solas had shared his Attribute, held her in his arms, declared his love for her in their own tongue, and then walked away.

Some might consider that inappropriate. Some might consider it a red flag. But she knew it for what it was.

The man was battling the desire to run.

He had been at war with this - with them - from the start. He had fought day in and day out to deny it, even then. She gave him time to himself, bringing Dorian with her to the Emprise to chase down some Red Templars. She set up camp each night as they stubbornly pushed forward against the might of Corypheus' forces. And every night, she thought again of how Solas had been ready to walk away, even feeling as he did for her.

Where did that leave them, if even love could not make him stay? It was clear that whatever he carried was heavy enough for him to fear what it might do to them. It was also clear that, whatever obstacles they faced, their love was one that was stronger than even the average Vitals. Their Attributes sat on their chests, both nearly equidistant from their hearts, mirroring one another so that, if they embraced, the words would touch. And they both warned of Fen'Harel, of his hand in their relationship. How, compared to that, could Solas' secrets measure?

While battling through the last major outpost, pushing slowly back against the hordes of corrupted giants the templars had waiting for them, she'd had one of her men send off a letter to her keeper. She wanted to tell the woman to call off the search for her Vital, now that she had found him. She also wanted to know what was customary now that they were together. She knew the basics - they could whisper the words of bonding, of Intended; this would make them, in the eyes of the Dalish, the equivalent of the humans' engaged. To finalize it, they would have to stand before a keeper and show their matching Attributes, complete with them writing the other's words on parchment, and then go before their clans - a more difficult prospect, she'd informed her keeper, as Solas had no clan or Alienage to call his own - and show themselves with hands clasped to publicly announce themselves bound. But what happened between the individuals? Was there any way to make the short feelings of energy permanent, or perhaps stronger?

Though, sometimes, she wondered if that wasn't happening on its own.

Dorian seemed to roll his eyes more often when in her presence. Blackwall kept his silence on the subject. It was The Iron Bull who brought it up the most. "Missing your other elven half?" he had once joked, and made her jump. She hadn't told any of their friends about their match, since Solas seemed to be struggling enough as it was. Had he found out? He was a spy, after all - but the Qunari had just laughed and said, "I knew it! You do miss him! Hear that, Vint? You're her silver medal."

"Thank goodness for that, at least," Dorian said with a sniff. "I'm not certain I could survive the constant stargazing."

She'd blushed and looked down, but she couldn't help smiling. They were right, after all. She had never been happier in her life.

* * *

He told himself that being left behind finally gave him the opportunity to get his research done. It gave him the chance to speak with the spirits, to converse with them more deeply about the changes in the world and how he might fix them. They spoke with him about the cage that held the Evanuris. The extra time also allowed him to listen in more carefully on the meetings between the advisers, even participate in a few if they were about the rifts or the Breach; they trusted him as the Evanuris once had, so long before the war began. He could read up on human interpretation of the past, on human propaganda.

Yet all he could do was pace back and forth in the veranda, his every thought of the battles Pinga faced without him. She had done this before, but never for so long. The situation in Emprise du Lion must have been very bad, indeed, for her to have been gone without him for so many days.

On the second week, he heard Leliana speaking quietly with Cullen just beyond the door that led to Cullen's workspace, and without a moment's hesitation, he called upon his magic to heighten his hearing.

"They've nearly taken the mines back, but it's going to be a while, still," Leliana said. He could hear the rustling of a paper, the soft flutter of her clothing in the wind. Their steps echoed like thunderclaps as they moved toward him.

"Any trouble?"

"The news about potentially corrupted giants was true, it seems," she said in response, and he frowned at the words. They were clearly speaking on something they'd covered before. Something he'd missed. He released the magic as they opened the door and stepped inside. Leliana looked to him and stopped. "Ah. Solas. This is something you and the others who travel with the Inquisitor will need to know."

He looked up, adopting a curious expression and tamping down on his concern. "How may I assist?"

She rolled up the paper and put it in her pouch at her waist. "The templars have found a way to infect giants with red lyrium." His heart shunted itself into his belly, filled suddenly with lead. "The Inquisitor has apparently met two in battle already, and reports their strength to be much greater than the average giant. Have you had any luck in learning more about the material?"

He shook his head, frustrated and suddenly unreasonably concerned. Dorian was a capable mage, he told himself. And with himself in such a weakened state from his long sleep, the Tevinter was in several ways his equal. In battle, Solas would argue that he was even better. He could attack the enemy with greater efficiency. And with two warriors with her, the chance of the giant ever even reaching her was slim. He told himself this over and over again. His own memories of the battles at the Emerald Graves, however, reminded him that he knew better; those giants could grab boulders from the earth and throw them. They could jump farther than a human - or elf - could run. What could ones do with the added power of that lyrium?

He couldn't tell them what he knew, that they were dealing with the corrupted blood of a different sort of creature, one already changed by the same thing that created the darkspawn. Created, in essence, because of him. He took a deep breath, then another. "How has the battle gone?"

"From the last message the Inquisitor sent us, things are going well. They're camped out just before the mines, slowly whittling down the templars' defenses. She believes they need only one more push to get in - well, by now, they would be making that push. They should be finished by the end of today. We'll get another update."

He needn't worry. They could handle themselves. Pinga was not helpless. Ever since she'd received training from that male human to learn to become a Tempest, she had truly come into her own. While most Tempests were known to be brash or mad, she instead chose a level of control over it that left him breathless, watching her bathe herself in flame, her hair shining like sunlight. She could battle without him.

He should have deepened their bond. But he shouldn't. Couldn't, with his secrets. Deepening it - allowing them to continue touching one another, to let their words touch, let alone joining together in union, would mean to open their emotions, potentially even their minds, despite Pinga's lack of magical ability, to one another. His thoughts and memories could not be shared with her. Not if he wished to keep himself and his plans a secret.

Once more, he found himself chasing the tail of his own thoughts. He couldn't allow himself to continue thinking this way. He had to make a choice. That was likely why she had left him behind; she wanted him, this time, to make the choice without her. Now, of course, that she had him.

Somehow, some part of him remained cognizant enough to thank Leliana for her information, to promise to look further into the red lyrium and see what he could learn, see if there was any lore on the subject. She and Cullen both left him, and as soon as they were gone, he moved to stand before his paintings. In each, Pinga stood as a prominent figure, a beacon of light in the encroaching darkness. He had recognized what his feelings were from the moment he'd gripped her wrist. She had been the bearer of his mark; he had thought her under his protection, as one would back in his time if they had found another carrying something so impossible as a part of their own power. Not to mention how important she was to the closing of the rifts. And of course, as was inevitable with them as Vital to one another, that those feelings of protectiveness turned into something far different.

But could he truly allow everything he felt to turn him from his purpose? Could he let himself hold on to her for the time they had, for as long as he could, and leave his people to the fate he'd brought them?

For one insane instant, he imagined staying with her throughout his lifetime. To admitting he was immortal, to staying with her as she aged, and only when she died turning back to his plans. But then he considered what those last decades would be to him, watching her slip away, watching the wrinkles deepen on her face, watching her expressive eyes dim until they slipped closed forever. He couldn't bear even the thought of it. And how would she feel, knowing he was never to end, to remain young forever?

The path he'd chosen would lead to his end. He would not have to watch her die, and she would not have to watch him remain the same, knowing he would go on endlessly, perhaps even take on another lover. The price would simply be her life, as well, along with anything they might be or have.

He never should have let this happen.

* * *

Despite the fact that he didn't seem any more certain than he'd been before she'd left for the Emprise, Solas insisted he go with her for clean-up. She had to admit that having him near settled something within her; they traveled in mostly companionable silence, though Blackwall interrupted it with ridiculous questions that made Solas grind his teeth. She bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing. He caught her after Blackwall asked about elfroot. His scowl turned rather quickly into a smirk, and he finally just rolled his eyes and let it go.

They made camp as the sun set, the horizon burning red-orange in the distance, the rest of the sky already dark and sparkling with the glitter of starlight. She looked up as they met up with the Inquisition officers. Blackwall broke away to check the fire, Iron Bull to speak with the Requisitions Officer. Solas stood at the edge of the camp, his gaze distant.

She spoke with her soldiers for a short time. Istamaethoriel had finally gotten back to her, and she accepted the letter one soldier gave her. It was simple and to the point: touch would deepen the bond, as would a mutual desire for it. The couple was like any other, save that they were perfectly matched; no matter what hardship they might face, they would grow closer, and stronger, because of it. Her keeper also wanted to meet Solas as soon as possible. She'd nearly laughed at the note of maternal protectiveness in those last sentences.

That done, she turned herself to Inquisition business. Little of note needed to be reported; the men and women at the camp had had a small skirmish while she'd been away, but it had merely been a rogue wolf pack, another group driven mad by the rifts. She mourned the deaths of the animals, but was happy to learn her people had come out of the skirmish unharmed. She sent short prayers for them to Andruil and Falon'Din, then headed to Solas' side. He barely registered her existence, merely nodding at her in greeting before looking out again. She strained her gaze, but could find nothing he might be staring at. That left only that which lay in his mind.

In silence, she waited. Her body felt heavy from the walking, but she was used to much harder treks throughout her life. The _aravel_ would sometimes have to travel great distances very quickly to get away from dangerous locations. Still, by the time Solas finally turned to her, her feet had begun to ache slightly, and a deep chill had settled back over her. She wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire.

"Inquisitor," Solas said, as he always did whenever others might overhear them, "may I ask you something personal?"

Following his lead, she led them further away from the camp and its beautifully warm blaze. She waved Iron Bull and Blackwall away when they made to follow. "What do you want to talk about?"

Solas held out his hands, only to drop them before she could respond in kind. "May I ask about your scar?"

She stiffened. Of all the things she'd thought he might be thinking about, her scar was not one of them. Was that one of the reasons he fought against their bond? She took a deep, shaky breath. Her fingers traced over her armor, where the wound hid. "Of course. I suppose it's not the best symbol, to have a scar over your mark."

"Battle wounds happen all the time," he said, and they should know, after everything they'd been through lately. She took comfort in how simply he stated it; nothing more than fact, nothing personal. His gaze was earnest as it searched hers. "But that is no battle wound."

She bit her lip. "No. It isn't." The wind was even colder now that the sun was gone, and she sat down to keep her body as warm as possible. Solas stared at her for a moment, then curled down to join her. "This isn't something - I mean, if it wasn't you, I likely wouldn't be saying this."

She didn't know how to catalog the look that passed over Solas' face. His eyes widened slightly; his lips twisted up, then down, as if he was unsure whether to smile or grimace. "If it is too personal-"

She shook her head. "No. Well. Yes." She reached out, letting her hand hover over his. He looked down at it for a moment before wrapping his fingers around her palm. She squeezed down, her heart thrilling at the contact. That energy shot up again, and she thought for a second she could feel some sort of anxiety, one that did not match her own. Solas'? "My father believed in the elven gods, when I was a child. He was the one to teach me the proper rituals and prayers. He loved them, and taught me to love them, as well." Solas was silent at that, and she understood why. Not only did it make no sense to him for her to begin her story with such a non sequitur, but it also brought up, once again, the gods she loved that he did not believe in. But to her, this was no different than Iron Bull, or even Cassandra, who insisted she should have room for another god. The stunning differences were amazing, exhilarating. How could she explain that one of the reasons she loved him was because he was so different?

He squeezed his fingers tight around her hand for a moment. She dared lean her head on his shoulder. It was easier to speak about this with the warm sensation of his body against hers, that tingling sensation shooting up and down her body like sparks from the campfire. "Only a few weeks after I turned ten, my eight-year-old brother failed to come home. We searched for him for hours. The next day, a few of our people, along with my father, volunteered to go out to the nearby human village to see if they had seen him. Before they arrived, just before the gate - my father and the others heard a couple of men talking. They spoke of a young elven boy performing tricks with magic." She cuddled up tighter. "They killed him."

Solas flinched. His fingers clenched down on hers hard enough to hurt. She felt his chest still for a moment before he carefully let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She buried herself into him, into Solas' woodsy scent. "My father killed one of them, and his fellow clansmen followed his lead. One of them, however, escaped into the village when the villagers came to investigate. They protected the man and ran my clansmen away.

"My father came home furious, in tears. He and my mother mourned. I was able to understand that my brother had been killed, but not why. My family had no history of magic. But even if my brother had been able to use it, so what? He was a child. Who murdered children?"

Solas' arm tightened around her. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"My father. He prayed to the gods, to Mythal and Elgarnan for vengeance, to Falon'Din to watch over Aningan." The wind whipped around them, and she ducked her head slightly into Solas' chest to escape it. This time when she inhaled, she thought she could smell something like pine needles. "After a few weeks, as the humans started threatening us more insistently, my father began turning to Andruil. He demanded we find the last man to attack Aningan, that my brother receive justice. The _aravel_ wanted it, too, but the humans were sending people after us every day. One of our spies, I learned a long time later, had heard reports of templars coming. The clan was forced to pack up and leave." She breathed deeply of Solas' scent and closed her eyes. "My father couldn't stand that we ran."

"It would have been difficult." They were the only words he spoke, but they brought some sort of solace to her. He understood her father's story. She remembered Solas' own loss, the friend she'd been unable to help him save, the men she'd let get away in her efforts to - well, to keep Solas from turning into her father.

"He grew furious with the _aravel_ for leaving, furious with the gods for refusing him justice. My mother and I, we only knew that he was away from home at night more often than usual. She tried to take care of me, but she'd just lost her son, too. We just tried to make it through.

"One day, _babae_ came to us. His eyes were wide, red, and his smile so wide it hurt to look at it. But he said he could explain all that he'd been doing, that he'd been fighting for the family. My mother held my shoulders then. She kept me from running to him. I hadn't understood why then; my father had spoken to us for the first time in over a week, and he was finally happy again, no longer angry or shouting. But my mother was afraid. And I should have been."

She could feel Solas' fingers pressing imprints into the leather of her armor. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

"He took us out to a nearby cave that night. It was dark; the forest was thick all around the area, all the better to conceal the _aravel_ as it made its way from the human settlement. We'd made camp there for a few weeks, needing to check our supply of food, needing to rest for the children like myself who couldn't keep up with the day-long pace quite as easily as the adults. The cave - I remember being confused. I remember wondering why there was a candle inside. But it was light, and _babae_ was clearly taking us toward it, so I wanted to race forward. My mother kept a tight hold of my hand, though. I think she knew, or had guessed. But she'd gone with him, because he was her Vital and she'd trusted him."

"Pinga," he said, his voice a deep whisper in the darkness. She shuddered at the feeling of grief, one that gave instead of took - grief, as he guessed what might have happened. She could feel his emotions as if they were partly her own.

"My father went inside the cave, calling for us to enter. My mother stopped me from running in, ducked down and held my shoulders steady. She didn't say anything, but - I knew she wanted me to stay. To not move. It was the same look she gave me when we were hunting, or when the _aravel_ awaited word of safety from the scouts. I stayed behind, and my mother went in to the cave alone."

"Pinga," he said again, this time a little louder. She realized she was shivering.

"I heard her gasp. She - she spoke. _Ahnas? Na'ya laimem mar'sil!"_ Her mother had screamed that her father had lost his mind. And then had come the screams. "I didn't know what had happened. _Mamae_ stumbled out of the cave. She told me to run. And then she fell. _Babae_ \- he came out of the cave after her. He was - smiling. With tears on his face." She shuddered. Solas practically folded her against him, until she was speaking nearly into his chest. She could smell him all around her, could feel his emotions inside her. He wished he could stop her from reliving this, wished he hadn't asked. Wished it had never happened, that he had been there to stop it. For some reason, despite the fact that Solas would have been barely an adult himself, he seemed to believe he could have kept her father from harming her and her mother.

"When he came after me, I almost didn't see the knife. I just saw the smile, and the tears, and _mamae's_ body - I didn't react until he raised the knife and the moonlight glinted off of it. He only barely missed - well. That's how I got the scar. Keeper Istamaethoriel and others of the clan came after us when they realized we were all gone in the middle of the night. I learned later she'd been aware of his nightly trips, and had finally gotten someone to follow him. They'd reported back that very night, informing her that my father had begun worshiping Anaris."

At the name of one of the Forgotten Ones, Solas hissed in a short breath. _"Felasil."_

She grinned. Yes, her father had been a fool. And her mother had been right; in his grief, her father had, indeed, lost his mind. "Keeper Istamaethoriel took me in after that. The clan..." She shivered. "They always wondered if perhaps my father had taught me to believe as he did, or if I might turn to the Forgotten Ones myself someday. Or perhaps they simply didn't like the stain of my father's actions."

"They shunned you," Solas said, his voice empty. She shivered again at the sound. Solas had always been distrustful of the Dalish - and perhaps with reason, if they were so unwilling to accept the knowledge he bore from the Fade. But this sounded a bit different. It sounded like he'd made some sort of decision. She thought for a moment before speaking.

"I'll be the first to admit the Dalish have faults," she said quietly. "Suspicions are the order of the day, and many are too convinced we know enough. But despite how mistrustful the clan was - is - of me, they never ran me away. They recognized me as a child who needed help. After everything, what I needed most was to know I would not be abandoned. They gave me that."

Solas was silent for a very long time. "I am sorry I made you consider me, when it you who is in pain right now," he said, and some of the tension in that frame bled away. "And I'm sorry to have you relive such a thing." She had already felt that regret coming from him, but she smiled at the words, anyway. He smiled back. "I appreciate you telling me all of this. I know it was difficult for you."

The way he said that - like he truly knew - made her wonder if he felt her the way she felt him. She hoped so. She hoped this bond grew between them both, as in the stories of old. "I hope it helped."

His brows drew low, covering his eyes in darkness for a moment, before something glittered within those depths. "It did," he said quietly. But she could tell it hadn't done enough.

She let him curl her around, let him wrap his other arm around her and simply hold her. The two of them were close enough to the camp that they were likely seen by the soldiers, but they were allowed their semblance of privacy. It gave her the chance to stay with him alone, no paperwork or meetings or enemies. Just them, for one solid, glorious moment. With him still waffling on his decision, still torturing himself over whether he should have allowed them to be together, she had to wonder how long it would be before he insisted on distance once more.

"Shh," Solas said. He ducked his head down and curled his face into the crook of her neck. They fell back onto the frosty earth, the cold barely touching them after the long day walking in the chill. She lay on top of him, one arm on the ground for balance, one knee sliding between Solas' legs to keep from sliding down. Solas held her as if to let go was to lose her. She curled her hand over his chest, over the place she now knew his Attribute rested. Her writing branded his very soul as hers. She would give him what he needed to believe in them.

By the time they returned to camp, Iron Bull had turned in for the night and Blackwall had taken to yawning every ten minutes waiting for them. They curled up again beside the fire, and when they went to sleep, they did so together.

* * *

He expected questions. Demands. But it seemed that, now that she knew her feelings were reciprocated, there was little else Pinga needed to hear from him. She never asked about his past, never demanded the reason why he kept a careful distance from them, even after he'd demanded a story that spoke more of her personal needs than he'd anticipated. She gave him space when he required it, even when he didn't say anything. And she came right when he was on the verge of seeking her out himself.

She did this even when he took from her her _vallaslin_ and turned her away.

He hadn't taken her to Crestwood to hurt her. He'd taken her there to be alone with her, truly alone, so that they could speak privately, without the slightest chance of someone overhearing. He had been ready to tell her. Who he was, even what he'd done. How he had been the one to start all this madness. And he would explain why, what his plan was and how, after meeting her, he knew he could do it, that it would work. He could bring back all that the elves had lost, and she could stand beside him. They could do it together, just as she said. She had been the one to rekindle his hope that his battle wasn't pointless. She had been the one to offer herself without question, to believe in him, to love him simply for the simple man he had one been, so long ago now if felt more like a dream, an idea of the Fade.

But he couldn't. He could not tell her knowing what it would cost her. How his own path mirrored so exactly her father's. How his own desire to see justice served, to see that which was taken restored, even in some small way, would look to her. Another attempt at power at the cost of those one loved. Her father would have learned that the deaths of those he cared for would have granted him greater power than those of strangers. He would have known, and that would have been why he had attacked Pinga and her mother.

He could not do that to her. That was what he'd thought, that and the idea of how she would respond, when he told her. As much as she loved elven history, as much as she clearly wanted what was best for her people, she had never once shown a lack of desire to help others of other races. She believed in helping everyone, in doing the right thing. And her idea of the right thing would not be what he was doing. Even he couldn't say his decision was correct. He may never know.

Even his Attribute warned him. They were fated to be on different sides. He was her villain.

And so he had changed his words, given her instead a different gift: a new knowledge, and a new choice. The _vallaslin_. It had been the first thing he'd thought of, the first thing he'd noticed, as he always noticed when he looked at her. The slave markings she wore with pride, because time had lost its meaning and the Dalish carried ghosts like crowns.

She had cried.

He had made her cry.

But he had been right. Her reaction - the way she struggled with the information, even as she accepted it unquestioningly - just as she always accepted what he said, what he told her, even when she probably shouldn't - showed him he'd been right to choose this as his path. It would be his, and his alone, without her carrying the burden of all that would be destroyed. He gave her his last gift, the very last thing he could - that which had made him Fen'Harel, which had started the war and brought the elven civilization to its knees. Freedom.

Freedom, also, from him. From who and what he was.

And yet, despite his every attempt to sever it, the bond between them remained strong enough for him to feel her. The sorrow that nearly crippled her, that had her waking late in the mornings and going to sleep earlier and earlier each night. The pain that dragged her shoulders down, that stole her smile every time she struggled to pull it out. The confusion that tore through her, the self-recriminations that hurt her so much Cole spoke on it, trying desperately to make it disappear when it could not. Would not. Because of him.

And he felt the fierce pride, the almost stubborn strength, that said she wouldn't let him destroy them. That said she would fight for them even if he wouldn't.

He couldn't let her.

He'd asked her to focus on the mission, on Corypheus. He knew she would accept the logic of the argument, as things got more and more hectic, as Corypheus focused his attacks and became increasingly aggressive. And because she thought there would be an _after_ for them, she let the issue slide. He was grateful. He would not have been able to stand against another assault.

Perhaps she could feel that from him. Perhaps that was why she didn't push. He knew she could feel it, same as him. The emotions that pulsed from him, the pain at his own decision that kept him roaming the halls of _Tarasyl'an te'las_ at night, that had him painting and painting, desperate to finish as much as he could before it was too late. Even after he'd severed them and refused any further physical contact, he could still feel the warmth of her mind in the back of his own, could feel the heat of her in the words pressed to his skin. As if her heart beat steadily against his own flesh.

And so he knew when she had been injured.

* * *

She had given him his space. In all honesty, she had given _her_ her space. She couldn't hide the pain that swept through her every time she thought of him, and it wasn't fair to her, to him, to her friends, to anyone they met to keep him around her while she suffered through her grief. She had even tried to leave Cole behind, but he had insisted on coming with her. He stuck to her side like glue, keeping oddly quiet, but never far. She realized after four days of this that he was sensing her need to be with family, to have someone she loved love her in return. He was giving her that support.

That night, she went to him and hugged him. Without a word, Cole hugged her back.

The next morning, they walked the expanse of the Hissing Wastes, giving their horses a break and simply heading from one camp to another, allowing themselves little more for the day than gathering any necessary stones or herbs. It was a nice, easy day, despite the insatiable heat; the desert was amazing, the sky seemingly endless. But the heat was nearly unbearable. She'd taken to accepting Blackwall's words of wisdom, to not drink until her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Doing so kept her water supply well stocked as they made their way across the endless sands.

They had come across a few enemies; spiders who had made a home below the hot surface, in the underground where the sand kept the place remarkably cool. They'd found stalkers roaming the edges of dunes, keeping to the slightly cooler side of the sandy hills and picking off the few animals foolish enough to struggle in the middle of the desert. The creatures, though they worked in small packs, often fell within minutes to their now formidable teamwork. But the trips through the wastes had culminated in a surprising discovery; they found yet another area where dwarven statues pockmarked the sand. Only this time, the hints of some ancient dwarven road were nearly completely uncovered. And the land was filled with varghest. They advanced slowly, their gazes sweeping back and forth as they took down one, two, three of the creatures, only for the swarm to grow around them. Cole took a bite to the shoulder, and she called a retreat. Blackwall shielded their flank as Dorian and she cleared the way back the way they had come.

They made it out all right, and they doled out their healing potions amongst one another before making a far more cautious progression back to camp.

Once there, however, it didn't take long for them all to decide that returning was in their best interest. "Not, of course, that we ever really consider our 'best interests' before choosing whether to go on our usual mad ventures," Dorian noted. She managed a grin at that.

They returned to the area. This time, more prepared and properly rested, they were able to do a better job of defeating the varghests. Of course, when they were done, the path showed them a doorway. She took one look at it and sighed. "Today or tomorrow?" she asked.

"Today," Blackwall said, his voice gruff, his shield spattered with blood. He looked itching to fight, as he had been ever since she'd granted him amnesty. Ready to prove himself, she supposed. Not that it was necessary. A man could change, and if he did, he deserved the chance to prove what he could be.

She wished Solas could understand how willing she was to do the same for him. If she could forgive Blackwall's transgressions, then what in his own past could be so horrible that he feared she couldn't forgive him?

Even now, with so much space separating them, she could feel him against her collarbone, the heat of his body reaching out through the vast space between them. In her mind, at the back of it, she could feel his desolation, his resignation and sorrow. He was just as happy with his decision as she was. So why had he chosen it?

She forced herself to focus on what was before her. Cole was giving her a penetrating stare; surely thinking about Solas had brought her pain to the forefront again, and the spirit was trying once again to find a way to heal it. She took a deep breath. "Dorian?"

"Why not?" Dorian leaned against his staff and crossed his legs at the ankles. "We're having such fun, why stop now?"

She grinned. "All right. Let's head inside."

Unsurprisingly, the place was in ruins. Still, enough was left that there could likely be recoverable artifacts; this was likely the place the Venatori had been searching for. It would be best to head inside and recover everything they possibly could before the Venatori found it themselves.

And that, of course, would be when they heard the dragon.

"Of course," Dorian said, his voice perfectly droll. It matched her feelings exactly.

They hurried up to the dragon, getting off a couple of shots before it woke up and roared to its feet. Like the battles before it, this one lasted hours; Dorian ensured they were as protected as they could be, while Blackwall faced the dragon head to head, always ducking behind his shield just before the dragon's teeth bore into his armor. Cole flitted in-between the dragon's feet, back and forth, slicing with his daggers and providing distractions when necessary. She helped Cole deliver as much damage as possible. The sun dragged through the sky, slid across the vastly wide expanse and, finally, tilted down toward the horizon. Still, they fought; the dragon hopping madly back and forth to evade Cole's daggers. They ran after it like ducklings, jumped back when the dragon swung its tail, hurried forward when it slid across the sands to attack them all from a distance. Sweat beaded down her back and slicked her palms as she pulled the string of her bow taut once more.

The next instant was faster in reality than it seemed. The dragon turned, as it always did, with enough warning after so many battles for both her and Dorian to move out of its way. Then her foot slipped on the cooling sand.

She waved her hands to steady her balance, nearly clipping Dorian with her bow. The man grunted in surprise, his gaze turned momentarily to her - and the dragon turned on them both, spotting her momentary weakness. Dorian didn't see it coming. She did. She launched herself forward with her good foot, barely managing to throw Dorian to the ground. The dragon's claws swiped directly over their heads.

She heard it moving up above them, heard Blackwall curse. She rolled over Dorian and reached for an arrow, her only thought to protect her friend long enough for them to pull their weapons out. Their feet could come later.

Teeth snapped into her arm.

She screamed.

Dorian shouted something in his language and pulled his staff over the both of them. Magic slammed into the dragon's face. With a roar, it flinched back. Dorian grabbed her shoulders and pushed her up, his gaze landing on her arm before he turned with a toothy snarl and raised his arms high, his magic shoving the animal back once more. Blackwall slammed his shield into it, spewing epithets and curses. Cole shifted to the dragon's other side, his daggers sinking into the dragon's flesh to the hilt, until it finally turned away from her and Dorian and focused once more on them.

Dorian dropped his staff immediately and grabbed her up, helping her to her feet as her legs failed her. "Potion," Dorian muttered, and unclipped one from his belt. She watched the battle, ready to pull Dorian away again if she must, but her friends were keeping the dragon well occupied. Dorian uncorked the bottle and held it up for her. "Drink."

She did as ordered, raising her good arm to hold it, trying to motion him to return to the fight. He took one look at her arm and threw a barrier around them, likely furious that he hadn't been able to do so before the incident had occurred. As if they hadn't experienced wounds like this before.

The potion worked quickly, and once she could move her arm again, she supplemented it with a regeneration potion. Her arm still burned like a thousand suns, her armor soaked in her blood, her muscles trembling under the strain of the potion's more magical properties and the suddenness of both the injury and the healing. But if she concentrated on the battle and ignored the spikes of pain, she could just barely pull back the string of her bow. She found herself gasping as she made to do it, to give Cole the chance to get away before the dragon took its next chunk out of him.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she yanked. In the back of her mind, she could feel something like panic. The bond. Solas was worried about her.

_Then he shouldn't have pushed her away!_

The anger lent her just enough strength, and her arrow shot true. The dragon's leg buckled, and for the first time that battle, they had the advantage. The dragon fell, its own wounds overwhelming it. The victory gave her enough time to get used to the new muscles, and as she recovered, she attacked. The tears in her eyes fell for a short moment. She told herself it was just the reaction from the pain.

* * *

Solas nearly tripped over himself as the others made their way back to Skyhold. Varric watched him with too knowing a gaze, but he couldn't care at the moment. He could feel her still, though the wracking pain his dissipated quickly enough for him to know she'd used a potion on herself. Why were there no spirit healers in the Inquisition? Usually he was weak with magic, but at his peak - if he could only have the power he'd gone to sleep with - he could still heal well enough to help. In the form he found himself now, however, he could do little more than heal a papercut.

His gaze latched onto the entrance to the main building as the sounds from outside grew louder. Her every return was met with such; it was as if she was some conquering hero. Pinga would normally turn to the crowd, wave, speak with someone close to her. Though her feet could be aching, her head pounding, her stomach rumbling, she would stop and speak if her people wished her to. And always, always, they did.

Finally, she entered. Usually, if she had gone somewhere without him, her gaze would seek him out immediately, even when he pretended to be busy in the veranda. She would look to him, and he would be in a position to catch it, even if she couldn't see him back. But this time, she kept her gaze firmly forward. He deserved the action; it was merely a way for her to survive. No doubt looking at him would remind her of the other, less easily-healed wounds she now carried. He looked her up and down, saw her walking easily, her hips swaying without the slightest sign of a limp or other discomfort. Her arms swung, not gripping anything. She didn't favor one side over the other. She was well.

He was about to turn away when he caught the discoloring on the leather armor of her right arm. It had obviously been cleaned, but blood did not wash away so easily. He paled. She had lost a lot of blood. Had the potions been enough? How many had she needed to recover from that?

When finally he made his way back to the veranda, still not receiving a single glance from Pinga, he found Varric's gaze on him. "You really blew it, huh, Chuckles?"

Yes. He had.

He walked back to his desk.

* * *

_"What we had was real."_

He had left.

She stood again where she had last seen him. She should have seen it coming. She'd caught the signs, in retrospect; she'd recognized his reticence, how he slowly pulled away from her, from their friends. He had gone to the Orb as he had his spirit friend, and she realized he might have known more about it than the rest of them, thanks to his travels in the Fade. What had he hoped to gain from it?

She had said it wasn't like Solas to just disappear. But wasn't it? He had cut off their relationship, had said they would discuss it when every - no. He'd said they needed to focus on Corypheus. She had chosen to hear that they would then discuss it all afterward. Because she'd had hope, she'd heard what she'd wanted to. And he had let her.

Why?

Of course she remembered how vehemently he had insisted it would be kinder if they did not fulfill their bond, if they left things where they lay and kept themselves separate. She remembered, too, the horrible sense of loss at the very idea. At the time, she'd thought it the worst sensation she had borne; she had thought herself willing to walk into the maws of giants before bearing such pain again.

But he had been right. This was far worse.

If she only knew _why_. The distance itself wasn't the problem. They'd been separated by the entire continent of Orlais before. They'd known distance. But this wasn't a distance of the body, and she still had no idea why. She should have let Cole tell her. When she asked now, the spirit seemed not to know, or perhaps just unwilling to share. Maybe the knowledge would only hurt her more. She could no longer know.

Of course she let Leliana waste the Inquisition's resources on trying to locate him. More than anything else, she needed to understand. The pain would not be mitigated by the answer, but with understanding could come acceptance. As she was, she lived in limbo. And it was worse, somehow, with the bond as fulfilled as it was. Able to sense his emotions, even across the vast distance. Able to feel the warmth of his body against the press of his script's stain on her skin.

She feared he could feel her own, and fought to control them. He wouldn't feel how she sank exhausted into sleep each night, how, when she woke up, she stared fuzzily up at her ceiling and had to remind herself of reasons why she should get up and face the day. He would not know how she haunted his veranda, the desk's clutter untouched as if he might somehow choose to return. Or how she would stalk her friends when they returned, or stand with crowds of people in a vain attempt to push the loneliness from her blood.

Leliana came up beside her, a silent sentinel. Likely one of her scouts had told her of Pinga's whereabouts, and Leliana had come to join her instead of pulling her back to the castle. The woman didn't demand she leave, didn't demand she bring an ally or some soldiers to help protect her. She just stood beside her. It was something she hadn't known she needed. A reminder she wasn't alone.

She turned, finally, to her friend. "I shouldn't have let this happen."

Leliana smiled. "Love is stronger than shoulds and should nots, Inquisitor."

Stronger than shoulds and should nots. She nodded and faced away, toward that space where Solas had knelt and picked up the broken Orb in despair. "How well I know," she murmured.

* * *

The next couple of years were busy. He'd already had several contacts, and many of them he left in Skyhold, to report back anything they learned. He could say he did so simply because Skyhold had become the hub of information Leliana had likely always dreamed of; he could say it was because Skyhold, and its Inquisition, were a freelancing group, not held to any country or authority but its own, and thus able to act as the wild card in his plans. But truly, it was because he could not leave her completely alone, could not cut them off clean the way he should have. The way she needed him to, if she was to have any chance of recovering from what he'd done to her.

But it was good that he did. After over a year, his people started to report something off about the Inquisitor. Her hand was glowing slightly more than usual. His heart raced at the news. He knew what it meant. As he struggled with his ideas of what he should do - should he return to Skyhold, speak with her about it? How could he pull off the act of weak apostate when he would be using magic to counteract the Orb? Would he be able to slip away so easily once more? And should he show such a side of himself where his people - _others' people_ \- might be watching?

The answer had been taken from him when his spies sent him another report - that Qunari agents had infiltrated Pinga's organization. And they planned to attack the humans' major cities.

It gave him an opportunity. He would be able to save her life. That was the most important thing. Even if it meant showing her what he'd never meant for her to learn.

* * *

At every turn, they heard the name Fen'Harel. Her heart hammered in her chest every time she heard it. The words on her skin nearly burned. She hadn't forgotten them, per se. But she had managed to push them from her mind.

Somewhere, Fen'Harel's agents still walked this earth. And for some reason, this Viddesala believed her to be one of them. They had spies, yes, but how could she have learned of Pinga's Attribute? And managed to misinterpret it so thoroughly?

Then she saw Solas, gilded in gold, turn that Viddesala to stone, and she understood. Her heart wept.

"Solas."

* * *

He felt her realize. Their bond stretched to snapping at the sudden proximity after so long, sensitive to its match, nearly singing its desire for a re-strengthening of its link. He took a deep breath and turned. Her face held all of her emotions on it. The broken expression was almost art, perfectly etched into the planes of her skin. The squint of her eyes, the press of her lips. The tremble in her chin.

Still, she gave him the chance to lie, to call himself an agent of Fen'Harel. But here, in this, finally, he would give her the truth.

He gave her everything he could. Except what he wanted to give her. What he could feel her wanting, despite herself.

Despite himself.

"You had to know," she said. "From the start. What our Attributes meant."

"I did," he said quietly. "I should not have-"

"You should have told me the truth." He watched her bow her head, saw her shoulders tremble. He let her battle against her tears, wishing he could comfort her. Wishing he hadn't been the one to put them there in the first place. "Did you really think I would turn you away?"

"You thought Fen'Harel a monster," he said.

"But not you. You are real. The stories... that's all they are. Us trying to preserve the old ways. When you taught me of the _vallaslin_ , did I forsake the knowledge?" She looked up to glare at him with cheeks unmarred.

The very reminder of that moment, the moment when he forsook her for his people, brought pain like needles to his chest. The anguish made him late to respond.

"I would have stood by you. I would stand by you now. Why would I leave you simply because of your name? Why would I not trust you with that truth when I trusted you with all others?"

He hunched his shoulders, wishing he could not hear her proclamations. Wishing he could accept them. "Remember your mark, _vhenan_." He reached up to touch his armor, right above where his own mark sat. "Remember mine. Remember what they say."

"They tell me to beware of you," she said, her tone still unshaken, stating the meaning as if by rote.

"That's right," he said. "What I plan to do would go against everything you believe in. Everything you love."

"I love _you_."

He closed his eyes against the wave that threatened to overwhelm him. " _Vhenan_. Please." He turned away from her, walked toward the edge of their small clearing. The grass crunched beneath his boots. She followed; he could sense her as much as hear her. She'd sunk herself deep within him. It was too late to get her out. "You do not understand."

"Then _teach me_."

Such open acceptance of what he offered. Such a love of learning, an eagerness. A trust. Even now. He did not deserve it. And soon, he would not have it.

He told her. As he did, he felt the cracks in her soul begin to bleed. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

* * *

She couldn't get to her feet, even as Solas knelt just before her, his brows pulled low in response to her pain. Solas' words were ones of parting. He had brought her to him only to heal her. To keep her alive for as long as he was able. Even now, at the end, still he called her his heart. Still he recognized his love for her. Even as what he perceived to be his duty pulled him from her.

She'd known she'd fallen in love with a man torn. She hadn't known he was outright broken.

The knowledge gave her some sort of strength. It brought clarity, beyond the pain of her arm and the hollowness loneliness wrought. All this time, she had feared Fen'Harel's intervention in her bond. Now she knew what her Attribute had truly spoken of, and what his own meant. They'd both been so wrong, right from the start. "Solas. My Attribute warns me to fear not you, but useless yearning. I will not fear that which is merely misunderstood. You are my wolf. My one mate. My Vital. And I am yours. _Var lath vir suledin_."

Her words, however, instead of bringing understanding, brought only a wave of grief through their bond. "I wish it could, _vhenan_."

The pain in her palm spiked, stealing her breath. She wanted to speak further, to tell him what she'd learned. What she'd finally realized. Instead she was left locked in place by agony as he named her in the human tongue, admitting once more his love for her. She leaned forward as he came closer, forcing herself to move at least this much, trying with her lips to say what she couldn't find the breath to speak with her tongue. The pain spiked once more, then suddenly dimmed, almost as if a ghost sensation. Solas stood, moved away. "I will never forget you," he said.

She finally caught her breath, but couldn't find the words that would bring him back. Because there were none. She clenched her hands and bent down, curling into herself where she lay on the ground. Her chest burned with the regrets and pain Solas carried. She sobbed. He was leaving her. Just as her Attribute had warned. How could she possibly stop a god?

She laughed. A sloppy, broken laugh, wet with the tears dripping down her cheeks, sparkling upon the rocky floor. She had already defeated one, hadn't she? Now that she had some practice under her belt, it should be easier this time.

Time slipped away from her. At some point, her friends' footsteps raced up to her, Cassandra calling out her title and slamming to her knees by her side. The woman gasped. "Inquisitor! Your arm!"

She looked. Somehow, she wasn't surprised to find it gone. The ghost sensation of pain lingered still, as did the sense of her fingers curled in on themselves. She'd read about that. Curious to feel it for herself. She thought of her bow, still strapped to her back. Thought of Solas' words, his warning that the Anchor would eventually kill her. She couldn't afford to die. She had a Vital to save.

She looked up into Cassandra's concerned brown gaze. "Let's get back," she said. "I have quite a report to make." At the cocked eyebrow she received, she grinned. It felt hard, quirked up at an odd angle. Nearly feral. Like a wolf. "And I have someone to drag back. By his tail, if I must."

If Solas wished to follow his own path, that was his right. But he was a fool if he thought she wouldn't follow her own trail.

She would bring him back. She would make things right for the elves - the _right_ way. And there was nothing he could do to stop her.

She knew the moment he felt her decision across the bond. Wonder flashed across the back of her mind. It changed quickly, turning darker, but she held the memory of that first reaction. Until she could get the bond completed, she would carry the memory of his awe as a reminder.

She was right. And once again, a god was wrong.

Love was stronger than shoulds and should nots.

 


End file.
